


Every Possible Way

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Canon, Shibari, YOI Shibari Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 10:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20692292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: After a day in which things don't go well for Victor at practice, Yuuri and Victor go back to their apartment to wind down—and tie up.Yuuri’s fingertips graze the top of Victor’s head, combing through the fine silver strands from scalp to tip. Though Victor knows there are no nerve endings in his hair, it always feels that way when it’s Yuuri touching him, shivers cascading down his spine in the wake of Yuuri’s hand.“I’ll take her out,” Yuuri says in a calm, measured tone. “You should go to the bedroom and get into a comfortable position.”Victor’s mind screeches to a halt, breath catching in his throat at the well-worn phrase. Oh.





	Every Possible Way

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Rope Burn! Despite the project theme being bondage, I decided to lean into my soft, T-rated brand and portray some of the more gentle aspects of bondage. 
> 
> I collaborated with nikiforoov on this work, and you can find their gorgeous art in the zine for now. I'll add links to it here after its posted as well :)

For a brief moment in the air Victor thinks, _I have it this time_.

The world tilts. The tip of his blade touches the ice, and he knows instantly that he was wrong. His ankle starts to twist, and he acts on instinct to save it, throwing himself forward to avoid the possibility of an even worse injury. 

The ice is achingly cold beneath his palms as they slap down hard on the flat surface, the sound of it cracking out, bouncing off the rink’s rafters, but the pain in his ankle is only a twinge. Victor gasps, dropping his forehead to the ice, his stomach churning with a medley of exhaustion and relief. 

Yakov is screaming at him from across the rink, but the words are a blur. He’s pissed, that much is clear, but Victor is used to tuning that out. 

He can’t ignore Yuuri, though—his cry of dismay echoes off the ceiling and shakes Victor’s bones.

Can’t let his love down.

Pushing himself back upright, Victor turns, flashing Yuuri a smile and a wave that’s only a little bit pained. Yurio, who was apparently skating over to check on him, stops abruptly a few meters away when he sees Victor’s face.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yurio snaps. He’s red all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. “Yakov told you to stop. _I_ told you to stop.”

“I can do this,” Victor insists. He smiles through Yuri’s savagery, knowing it’s not meant to sting. “What, worried about me?”

“Never,” Yuri hisses through gritted teeth. “But I want you to give up and retire, not _break your fucking leg_.”

So he says, but it’s all bluff. Yuri is worried. It’s sweet, but Victor doesn’t need the concerns of others holding him back right now. Europeans is looming on the horizon, and Victor’s programs are still downgraded. Most of his quads came back with a little effort, but the loop, stubborn, resists him.

Can’t disappoint his fans.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures Yurio with another tight-lipped smile.

Huffing, Yuri spins around and dashes off across the ice, stopping himself against the boards where Yuuri stands waiting for Victor’s ice time to end. Victor pauses long enough to watch them confer—blond head lowered beside Yuuri’s dark hair, like two sides of a coin.

The two of them together inevitably breeds trouble.

“_NIKIFOROV_,” Yakov’s shout stops him in his tracks. It’s a very old habit. Any time his coach resorts to only his surname, it means Victor’s in serious trouble. His muscles still react to the word with the instinct of a naughty twelve year-old, caught trying jumps beyond his level. “You’re done for the day! Finished!”

Victor turns toward his coach, lips parted to protest, but Yakov is red as a beet and pointing furiously toward the exit. “Get off the ice,” he orders. “Before I restrict you to off-ice for a week. Now!”

Technically, Victor could stay out anyway. He’s an adult, and Yakov can no longer physically pick him up and carry him out of the rink—an occurrence that may have happened more than once—but it won’t do him any good to press his luck and stress Yakov’s patience past breaking, either. 

Waving cheerfully to the old man, Victor calls it a day and glides over to the exit, where his skate guards are already waiting. He darts a glance over to where Yuuri was standing before, but his fiance is nowhere to be found. 

Victor drops to a bench to remove and tend his skates, then heads for the locker room to shower and change. 

Yuuri’s already in the locker room. His dark head, hair slicked back and gleaming, is just visible above the top of the shower when Victor comes in. Victor shucks his clothes and grabs his clean towel to join Yuuri, but as soon as he enters the showers, Yuuri shuts his own water off. Victor’s timing is off today, off-ice as well as on it.

“Yuuri,” he sings out, delighting in the sound of his lover’s name against the acoustics of the bathroom tile. “I’m starving already. What should we do for lunch?”

Yuuri’s shoulders rise and fall in a silent shrug as he rubs the white terrycloth over his wet hair. Draping the towel over his shoulders, he pads back to the locker area without any further answer. 

Well, it’s hardly unusual for Yuuri to get lost in his own head, especially after practice. Victor knows all too well that Yuuri has a tendency to replay his own mistakes, looking for a solution. It can take a few hours before he opens up and mentions anything to Victor about whatever he happens to be stuck on today. 

Victor submerges his face in the shower spray, scrubbing the sweat from the roots of his hair. He can only hope that whatever is bothering Yuuri this time won’t require another late evening run back to the rink to work through. The evening security in the arena is getting sick of seeing them.

Yuuri is still silent as they both pack their gear and walk to the car, but the quiet feels empty, hollow. Victor is compelled to fill it. 

“Did you hear Mila and Georgi talking about the new film they saw?” Yuuri shakes his head. 

“Apparently it’s based off of a series that was very popular in Japan! Have you heard of it before?” Yuuri nods. 

“Did you like it?” Yuuri shrugs.

The drive back to their apartment is short. Yuuri’s hand rests on the arm between their seats as usual, and he twines their fingers together each time Victor reaches for him in return, but his head remains turned to the window, his dark eyes flickering over the sights of the city.

Victor turns on the radio. He turns up the volume. He changes the dial, spinning through static and rapid-fire news broadcasts to land on an old pop station. He sings along with the familiar music, loud enough to drown out the echoes in his own head. Still, Yuuri’s gaze drifts out the window, the palm of his hand warm in Victor’s own.

The quiet stretches on from their parking spot to the elevator and up to their floor, broken only by the sound of Victor’s heartbeat drumming in his ears and the click of his key in the latch as they reach the front door. 

Makkachin comes to greet them, her nails clicking and dragging on the hardwood floors. Her tail wags and both ears go up when she sees Victor and Yuuri walk into the apartment together. She’s always happiest when the whole family is home, and it’s obvious that she considers Yuuri part of that equation now. Any time he leaves overnight, Makka sleeps on the floor in the living room, refusing to join Victor in the bed unless Yuuri comes too.

She’s a good dog. Victor takes a knee and gathers her fluffy head up in his palms, scratching behind both ears at once, and tells her so.

Yuuri’s fingertips graze the top of Victor’s head, combing through the fine silver strands from scalp to tip. Though Victor knows there are no nerve endings in his hair, it always feels that way when it’s Yuuri touching him, shivers cascading down his spine in the wake of Yuuri’s hand. 

“I’ll take her out,” Yuuri says in a calm, measured tone. “You should go to the bedroom and get into a comfortable position.”

Victor’s mind screeches to a halt, breath catching in his throat at the well-worn phrase. _Oh._

Now it’s his turn to be silent. There’s nothing else to say, unless he needed to say no, which he most certainly does not. Removing his shoes, he pads through the living room in his socks as Yuuri clips the leash to Makkachin’s collar.

Victor makes it as far as the bedroom door by instinct before he hesitates, hovering in the doorway, his hands toying with the hem of his t-shirt. Right now, the game is up to him. Yuuri gave the order—the _suggestion_—but how Victor plays it from here sets the tone for what comes next. 

He could strip down completely, splay himself out on the bed, and welcome Yuuri into their room with open arms. Victor knows, then, that the artifice would all fall away. They could relax, taking comfort in the feeling of warm skin and stuttering breaths.

But that would mean ignoring the fact that Yuuri had the right idea. Softness is not what Victor needs today. 

He pulls his t-shirt off over his head and drapes it across the back of the chair by their closet. His hands linger on the elastic waist of his leggings, but—

It’s not that sort of day.

He leaves the pants where they are and crawls onto the king-sized bed he now shares with Yuuri, the pristine white down comforter sinking beneath his weight as he moves. Turning to face the wall, he kneels at the center, thighs spread, his face downcast to focus on his hands clasped in his lap. He breathes, counting the seconds, and tries to relax.

In the silence of the empty apartment, his thoughts twist and fold over one another, clambering for the corners and the ceiling. This isn’t a punishment—they don’t _do_ that—but it always feels like one. Victor hates being left alone with his thoughts at times like this, when all he can do is replay the practice over and over in his mind, hunting for mistakes.

The click of the front door is loud as a gunshot, and Victor straightens his back. He pulls his hands apart from where they’d been clasped too tightly, placing one on each thigh, forcing himself to at least look like he’s at ease here. Makkachin’s tags jingle against each other as she runs through the house. Her flat black nose peeks over the edge of the bed, and she snuffles once before she leaves, satisfied that everyone is indeed where they belong.

A moment later, Yuuri steps into the doorway. He pauses on the threshold, taking in the details of Victor’s pose and position, and Victor knows that Yuuri is noting Victor’s clothing in particular. In the language they’ve crafted between them, clothes are the equivalent of a yellow light—proceed with caution. Yuuri always does. 

Stepping to the foot of the bed, Yuuri kneels on the floor and slides the plastic storage bin from its hiding place behind the bedskirt. The lid clicks open, and Yuuri begins removing sections of rope from within, laying each wrapped bundle on the mattress by Victor’s knees, as if displaying them for an inspection. 

He’s chosen the teal today. When they’d ordered the ropes, months ago, Yuuri had tapped the tablet screen, enhancing the image for a better view of the exact color. _These ones_, he’d murmured, breath rushing over the shell of Victor’s ear as they sat curled together. _They match your eyes._

Victor’s fingers press hard into his thighs as he waits, taking shallow breaths to allow Yuuri the time he needs.

The bed dips, rocking Victor as Yuuri joins him. Reaching out, he lightly taps Victor’s wrists, and Victor drops his hands from his lap, letting them fall loose on the bed at his sides. He sucks in a breath as Yuuri unwraps the first length of rope, and the soft fibers slide around his torso.

“Remember to breathe normally,” Yuuri murmurs, and Victor nods, not ready to speak yet. He appreciates the reminder. It’s easy to get caught up in these moments, in the desire to _be good for Yuuri_, and forget that some of those actions are bad for Victor. Arms in the wrong positioning or poor breath can mean a rope that’s too tight or a position he can’t hold for long after the initial rush wears off. 

As Yuuri slowly weaves together the harness on Victor’s chest, they both keep silent. In the absence of speech, everything else seems amplified. Victor can hear Makka’s soft movements in the next room, the drip of a distant faucet, a revving engine on the street below. He smells the sweet, light fragrance of Yuuri’s favorite shampoo when the air stirs as Yuuri shifts around him—the familiar scent that had always meant _Yuuri_ in Hasetsu. These days, their bath products mingle on the shower shelves, interchangeable, but Yuuri still keeps a small bottle of his own for showers at the rink. 

Yuuri’s hair is still noticeably damp at the crown, and Victor inhales deeply when Yuuri leans in closer, almost tucking his head under Victor’s chin to reach around him. Victor closes his eyes to let the smell of comfort wash through him.

The methodical brush of Yuuri’s fingers beneath the rope is meditative, and Victor’s eyes remain closed as the calm settles into his limbs. He’s almost sleepy with it, his body swaying slightly with the dip and roll of the mattress as he slips away from awareness.

He feels Yuuri pause behind him, then Yuuri’s arm brushes over his as Yuuri reaches forward to retrieve a second bundle of rope. His fingers press lightly on Victor’s shoulders, then skim down his arms, and Victor follows the movement, pulling both arms back. 

As Yuuri begins to wind the new length around Victor’s wrists, he also breaks the silence.

“Why didn’t you listen today, when Yakov told you to stop?”

Victor had known before that the question would come, but that knowledge was lost somewhere between the street and the bedroom door. Tension bleeds back into him at the words, and Yuuri pauses in his work to rub Victor’s back, thumbs pressing into the knots hiding at the swell of his shoulders. 

There’s no prompting as his mind rolls the question around, searching for the best answer. Victor needs space to think when they’re like this, and Yuuri knows not to fuss as Victor fights to find his tongue beneath the fog caused by the pull and scratch of rope around his wrists.

“I don’t want to let anyone down,” Victor says at last. “Yakov, my fans… you. When things aren’t coming together I get… angry.”

It’s the first time he’s said that word; the first time he’d admitted to the boiling heat that underlies his movements when he fails, gets up, and fails again. “Everyone expects so much, and you’re all counting on me. When I can’t manage, it makes me _mad_.”

“Mad at Yakov?” Yuuri finishes the knots around Victor’s wrists and leans forward, the soft cotton of his shirt brushing against Victor’s bare back as he reaches for another piece of rope.

“No,” Victor admits. “At myself. I’m supposed to be better… the best.”

And here Yuuri could reassure him, reminding him of his reputation, or Yuuri could chastise Victor for thinking this way, or for underestimating himself. Instead, his touch is gentle as he presses his fingers into Victor’s scalp, running a fond hand through the famous silver locks.

“Not all the time,” Yuuri says.

Victor breathes. His eyes feel warm, tears threatening to take control, and he closes them away. He calms as Yuuri picks up the ropes once more, weaving the connecting bridge that will keep Victor’s hands bound close, attaching his wrists to the harness around his torso and waist.

This is why Victor enjoys these moments so very much. There’s a connection here that has nothing to do with knots and pretty lines on his skin. As Yuuri pulls the last few ropes into place, he also gathers up Victor’s scattered pieces—Coach, Skater, Student, Legend, Fiance—and wraps all of those things up into a single, real whole: Victor. 

Yuuri firms the last knot and wraps his fist around the handle, then tugs, tipping Victor over onto his side and helping him turn so they’re finally face to face.

With gentle hands, Yuuri checks the alignment of the ropes on Victor’s wrists and chest. His eyes are soft and his cheeks flushed, and Victor’s chest feels tight beneath the harness with how much he _loves_ this man. He wants to be able to give Yuuri everything—victory, confidence, allure, _himself_ in every way possible.

The brush of fingertips along his sternum signals that the check for tightness and chafe has turned over to a caress as Yuuri glances up at Victor through his dark lashes. “Good?” He asks Victor for confirmation, even though he knows the answer full well.

“Marry me,” says Victor in reply, and delights in the way Yuuri grins and squirms.

“I hate to tell you this, but we’re already engaged.” Yuuri’s tone is teasing, but his hands never leave Victor’s skin, a single fingertip tracing the shape of a heart on his chest.

“Kiss me, then.”

And Yuuri cuddles in closer, the heat of his body shielding Victor from the cool air of the apartment as they fit together, from hands and lips to lives and loves.

**Author's Note:**

> For updates and previews, it's best to follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish)


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